There was a hush.
With his toe on the very outer edge of the slab at one side of his box, Merriwell suddenly rose to his full height in the air, stretched his arm far upward as he brought it over, and the ball left his hand at the moment when he seemed reaching highest in the air. Downward from that height the sphere shot toward the outside corner of the plate, over which it passed about a foot from the ground.
It was a most deceptive ball to strike at, for it passed over the plate at least a foot lower than expected by the batter, who swung hard for it and missed.
Buckhart was close under the stick, and the ball plunked into his big mitt.
“You’re out!” declared the umpire.
Crockett retired to the bench, flinging aside his bat.
“Say,” he muttered, “this fellow has some new wrinkles this year. He threw one or two queer ones that time. Did you see that last ball? I don’t know how I missed it.”
“It was a drop, wasn’t it?” asked Anson.
“Drop—nothing! It was a straight ball, but he threw it with his hand stretched high, and it came down at an angle and on a line. Next time I will be watching for it.”
“Well, there’s your first batter gone, Bessie,” said Zona Desmond. “He didn’t hit the ball, did he!”